The spider and the fly

Dear Reader,

I wish I could tell you that you're going to survive this, but, that would just be polite, kind even, and though I am frequently polite, I am rarely kind. Would I have lured you to my lovely lair, enticing you with words you longed to hear, caressing your fragile ego, filling your already cluttered mind with vague promises you construed as you wished to believe what you would, just to set you free willy nilly? Decidedly not, dear Reader. Look around. Would I have led you oh so gracefully to this widowless room, locking the door gently behind you (Did you drop the letter to check the door, or let it dangle, forgotten, from your hand, numb with shock or, shall I say it?, fear?) Would I have left you here awaiting what fate has in store, to dwell upon what must to you be my loathsome decor, of blood spattered walls and floor, if you had even an infinitesimal hope of seeing the dawn?

Did you drop the letter to run screaming to the door, banging your fists till they bled? Or did you simply sink to the floor a huddled heap, to weep?

However you react, know that I am licking my lips in acute anticipation. I am the spider, you are the fly.

Tonight, you die.

Listen closely, dear Reader, in the stillness of the night. As the shadows draw closer, press in, the game will begin when on an impossible wind near your ear, you'll hear my voice as I whisper your name.

Till soon...